Victim of The Age
by Clez
Summary: Some people talk just to make noise… but what are they really trying to say, and do they actually want to be heard?


**Author's Note:** This was a challenge that someone handed to me. They gave me a bit of dialogue, some general pieces like a pairing, a rough rating and genre, and let me loose on the ficlet, basically. Before you read on, I just have to mention about a piece of it… it's kinda why it got the rating it did, because of the nature of the suggestion, but the point is, I got the idea from a discussion on a forum. You'll know what I mean when you get to it, but in case I'm being too vague, I'm referring to someone's past. Okay, that's enough from me.

* * *

**VICTIM OF THE AGE**

To say that the day had been long would have been an understatement, and the chance to just relax without the threat of impending trauma was, to say the least, a gift to be treasured in every possible way. She wasn't about to waste it, and so, sitting in her pyjamas, wearing a pair of thick socks, with a book on her lap as she curled up in the armchair, she was clearly savouring every moment. She had a cooling hot chocolate on the coffee table within arm's reach, and a CD playing softly in the background; perfect atmosphere. It was a pleasant change from the work she'd had to put up with that day anyway, and she sighed, sinking a little more into the chair as she thought back on the cases. Leukaemia, fractures, a child with a mysterious fever, MVC, attempted stabbing, GSW to the chest… it had been non-stop… the worst kind of day; _especially_ for a first-year resident.

Abby Lockhart leaned back into the soft armchair a little more, wondering when her company would arrive. It had started snowing outside… and she hadn't heard a van outside yet. It was a little odd… he'd given her the key a while back, and she'd taken it, but to just let herself into his home was… she was still adjusting, to say the least. It wasn't that she didn't like his apartment; she did, very much so in fact. It was much better than she'd first expected it to be, actually. It was just a little out of the blue… 'here, have my key and help yourself' – that was how it had felt when he'd offered. But she hadn't said no, and here she was, most definitely making herself at home on one of his armchairs.

_How does he afford this place anyway?_

That was when she heard the door, and without even glancing up from the print of her novel, she knew who it was. The door closed behind the figure as they swung it shut, and she heard his bag hit the floor on the way in. No doubt he was pulling off his hat and gloves now as he moved further into the apartment, and she waited. She would receive some sort of greeting any minute now.

"Comfy?"

There it was… not quite what she had expected, but not altogether unwelcome. "Yes, actually. Where did you say you got this furniture from again?"

"A friend," he responded as he shrugged off his coat, and pulled his scarf from his neck. "It's _freezing_ out there."

"You've got plenty of hot water," she told him almost nonchalantly, receiving a cold hand at the side of her neck for her trouble. She gave a slight squeal, though she held as much of it back as humanly possible, and offered him a scowl. He grinned and laughed, nodding as he headed for the bathroom.

"Good. I'll be back out in a while."

"Coffee?" she offered idly, not moving an inch as she tried to warm her neck back up by leaning it down to her shoulder in the manner of someone using the phone when their hands were full.

"I'll have whatever you've got," he responded before kicking the bathroom door shut.

"Okay then," she muttered, resigning herself to putting the marker back in the book, and standing to make her way to the kitchen to fix him a drink. Padding across the floor, she listened to the sound of the water running, and whipped up the second hot chocolate in one of the mugs from the cupboard. Leaving it on the counter for him, she glanced at the bathroom door for a moment, contemplating the thought of 'interrupting' him before reminding herself just how hectic work had been, for the both of them. He would no doubt want a little in the way of relaxation… and so, she headed back to her seat with a sigh. Perhaps next time.

She had fully engrossed herself in the book once again before he emerged from his shower, fully clothed, much to her chagrin. While she had never been a huge fan of tattoos in the plural, she was often willing to make exceptions for certain individuals… him being one of them. He wore a refreshingly baggy sweater and slacks with socks that rivalled hers for warmth and thickness, and he propped himself on the arm of her chair, looking down at the book; 'To Kill A Mockingbird'.

"I read that book in high school."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Hated every syllable."

Abby looked up at Ray Barnett with light-hearted contempt in her eyes, before laughing quietly. She closed the book around her finger to mark her place, and asked, "How was the rest of your shift?"

"It was… okay." He moved off the arm of the chair, and settled on the couch on the other side of the coffee table. Abby followed him with her eyes, turning herself in the chair to get a good view of him. His hair was fuzzy and somewhat spiked from his vigorous towelling after the shower, but it would settle down again soon… she suddenly wanted to just run her fingers through it, but held back.

"Really?" she murmured uncertainly. She wasn't convinced. "You looked like you were having a hard time."

Ray shrugged his shoulders under the sweater, staring down into his sugary beverage. "Good days and bad days… you know how it goes, right?" He sipped the drink almost experimentally, and apparently finding it to his liking, kept it in his hands. "I thought you'd understand that more than anyone, having been a nurse."

Abby considered the statement, for some reason trying to find an insult where there wasn't one. It had taken her a while to get used to Ray not teasing her every five minutes, instead offering something in the way of affection, humorous or otherwise; in work or beyond. At work, it was kept professional and discreet. Beyond was another matter; how she preferred her relationships when involved with a colleague. "Yeah, I understand," she said to him at last, her brows knitted somewhat in concern. "Are you sure you're okay? You look like something's bothering you."

Ray was silent for a while, as if deep in thought, or trapped in a memory that wouldn't release him, and Abby stood from her comfortable seat, set her book on the table, and perched herself next to him. When he didn't speak, she reached out and took her own mug, saying as she did so, "It was the domestically abused girl, wasn't it?"

His hazel-flecked eyes raised from the rim of his mug just a fraction, and he murmured, "How'd you know?"

"Well…" Abby began carefully, choosing each word as if the wrong ones would hurt, "as you said, I've had my good days, and my bad days, and I understand how it goes." She looked him in the eye as much as he would allow. "And I know that it's the youngest patients who are the toughest to accept." She shifted her grip on her drink. "How old was she? Five? Six?"

"Six," he agreed. "Six and three quarters." He chuckled under his breath and then sighed. "Poor kid."

"Yeah… but she looked tough. She's a fighter."

Ray nodded, slow and almost groggy. Abby put down her mug, and half-turned to him. "Talk to me."

"What?" He looked to her, eyes finally leaving the chocolate beverage. "Talk about what?"

"About that child," Abby replied simply but softly. "About you… about us… about _anything_. Just talk to me."

Ray's brow furrowed, confusion setting in. "Abby… I…"

"You're a big talker, Ray," she said to him gently with a smile to show this bothered her very little. "But, quite often, when you talk, you're not saying very much." At his expression, she continued, "I'm not trying to offend you, and with patients, just talking to them about nothing is good; they like having someone to talk to them… _at_ them, if you will. They don't like to feel alone." She paused, again being very selective with her words. "But this is different. I want you to talk about whatever you feel you have to. I used to do just the same thing… I'd pretend I had nothing to say, and then when I _did_ have something to say, there was no one around to listen anymore."

Ray frowned, eyes dropping again for a moment.

"So…" Abby began again, little more than a whisper, "… just talk to me."

For a long time, there was nothing, and Abby seriously wondered if she had failed; a thought that saddened her a little. But then, he shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, and his voice broke the quiet that had been left after the CD had stopped. It would loop again soon; Abby had put it on repeat, not that she even registered it sometimes. It was just background noise… she wasn't used to silence; it quite often unnerved her.

"When I was little… about nine or ten, my dad left."

Abby kept every ounce of attention focused on Ray, having sat up on the sofa in a cross-legged fashion so she could face him completely, even at a side profile as he was now, eyes fixed on the slight ripples that disturbed the surface of his drink. "I'd never really gotten on with him all that well anyway; I just used to listen to him fighting with my mom at night." His head titled slightly to one side as he considered his continuation. When it came, it was almost void of expression. "When he left, things were different… it was quieter. At first I thought I'd like the quiet, but after a while, it gets to you. I tried to find ways to make it… louder."

She listened, taking in every word, wondering where this was leading. She wasn't sure she really wanted to know all of a sudden, but she had prompted him after all; she would finish what she had started… she would see it through.

"Of course, when you're an only child, it gets a little difficult, and you don't have any excuses, really." His eyes lifted to hers for just an instant. "For the noise," he clarified before falling quiet once again, for a few moments that seemed to drag.

"And when it gets quiet, people notice when there's sudden noise that wasn't there before." A soft, almost resigned sigh slipped out of him. He continued to watch the liquid in his mug, as if transfixed by it. "I guess my mom got used to the quiet; I guess she liked it."

Abby frowned. She definitely didn't like where this was going.

"So when I started to make too much noise, she'd… tell me. Except without the actual telling part."

Sighing, she let her eyes drop for a moment. Why, of all the possible scenarios, had Abby expected _that_ one? If it was indeed what she thought it was; if she understood him correctly in his meaning.

"I mean, for a long time after she started doing it, I was one of the shyest kids in the area. I didn't make noise unless I _had_ to, because I knew where it'd get me." His expression was pensive; almost nostalgic. "But as I got older… when I got into high school, I realised that everyone else was making noise, and at school, I didn't have to worry about her finding out. At home, I was still quiet, because… well, she liked me that way. But when I wasn't around her, I'd say _anything I could_… just because I _could_." He looked to her briefly, and in his eyes, she saw an inkling of something; she wasn't quite sure what it was, but it wasn't sad… it was almost playful, mischievous. "When I got old enough to go to college, she was glad to get rid of me, I guess, and I was happy to go. I didn't have to worry anymore. From that day on, I suppose I just talked to make noise." He laughed to himself, but there was little in the way of humour in the sound.

Without realising, Abby let one of her hands reach out and touch his arm. He looked to her hand, and then up into her eyes. "Sorry," she found herself saying.

"For what?" he asked her. "Sorry that you made me relive a memory? Sorry my mom used to hit me?" He shook his head. "You don't have anything to be sorry for, Abby." He actually smiled then, and it didn't seem too forced; it wasn't altogether fake, which was a comfort in and of itself. Abby was warmed by that expression, and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his mouth that he reciprocated gently. Pulling back, she narrowed her own eyes almost in a puzzled fashion.

"So you talk to make noise?" she offered, trying to lighten the mood again, and he smirked.

"Yes, and I like it." He put down his mug, and turned to her, leaning close. "What're you gonna do about it?"

"Well, there's not much I _can_ do… you're bigger than me, after all."

Ray opened his mouth, and then closed it, before laughing. "I'm not sure how to react to that one… was that an insult?"

Abby paused. "I have no idea," she allowed herself to say after a while, shaking her head and shrugging. "It just slipped out."

"Well I'm taking it as an insult," Ray told her, feigning a serious posture. "I'm offended." With that, he gave her a light shove, and Abby – embarrassingly enough for her – slipped backwards on the couch, and landed on her back, soon finding him looming over her, propping himself on either side with his hands. "So what're you gonna do to make it up to me?" he asked her, face stern in a mocking manner.

"Well… that depends," she muttered pensively, cocking her head against the padded sofa beneath her. He looked down on her almost sceptically.

"Depends on what?" he asked quietly.

"Depends if you're going to let me up or not," she told him, quirking a brow. Ray apparently considered, and then slinked back and off of her, returning to his side of the couch, watching her. Abby sat up, not moving for some time. The two simply remained still and quiet for a while, before Abby took Ray's distraction – the mug had suddenly grabbed his attention again – as her cue to move, and she soon had the tables turned. She leaned over him as he lay on his back, head supported by the cushions, looking up at her as if he'd been slapped in the face.

"How'd that happen?" he asked, thrown for a loss.

"Ah, that would be telling," she teased him, smiling down at him. "Now… promise me something."

Almost concerned, Ray leaned his head back from her as much as the cushions would allow, asking slowly, "Promise you what, exactly?"

In a more serious tone, though laced with worry and affection, she said to him, "Promise me you won't beat yourself up over things you can't help."

He cocked his head. She elaborated; "Things like the past… like that little girl. You did all you can… you still _do_ all you can. That's all anyone can ask."

"Okay," he murmured slowly. Sighing, he had no choice but to consent; apparently at her mercy, after all. "I promise." Abby smiled, just before he said, "But you have to do the same."

"Ray…"

"Abby…"

Sighing, she bowed her head, annoying him by letting her hair 'attack' his face for a moment, before she pulled it up and said quietly, "All right. I promise."

"Good." It was Ray's turn to smile, before he reached up, and using his hand at the back of her neck, pulled her close enough to kiss her deeply. Abby leaned down into him carefully, revelling in the smell and proximity of him… he smelt fresh from his shower; tasted sweet from the chocolate. She smiled against his lips, and ran one hand down the side of his face, and up through his hair. It was settling down now, but it felt nice between her fingers… soft, and clean.

Letting everything melt away; all the discussion and past demons, Abby half-lay against him, feeling his own fingers working through her hair, and over her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Sighing contently on the inside, she wished this would never end…

Suddenly, the morning, and another shift, looked all too close.

Resigning herself to the fact that the night would have to end sometime, she settled for enjoying it while it lasted. There would be others like it, after all, and that was enough to placate her.

For now.


End file.
